


Molly's Morgue Drawer

by 3seconds



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (probably), Attempt at Humor, F/M, Ficlet, Fluff and Crack, Hodgepodge, I'll update the tags as I add stuff, Just a place to store this stuff, Light Angst, Mentions of other characters from BBCSherlock, Missing Scenes, Possibly canonical levels of violence, Possibly canonical mentions of character death, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Stuff that was never quite good enough, WIPs I'm never going to finish, With relevant info in each chapter summary, archive of abandoned works, fics that didn't make the cut, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27771148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3seconds/pseuds/3seconds
Summary: A hodgepodge of non-related ficlets and unfinished WIPs. Most of this is stuff I never felt was ready for prime time, or just flat out failed to finish. But I want to give it a home somewhere, so here we are.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 53
Kudos: 55





	1. Overview

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EnglandsGray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnglandsGray/gifts), [OhAine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/gifts).



> First chapter is just a place holder. Actual work begins with Chapter 2.
> 
> I'm gifting this shoe box of abandoned trinkets to EnglandsGray and OhAine. You both deserve so much better, my dears, but right now this is the best I can manage. Hopefully there will be a few rough gems scattered here and there. I just want you to know that the lovely conversations I've had with both of you recently have bolstered my spirits in so many ways. You've both been bright spots in this otherwise very bleak year. Thank you both from the bottom of my heart.

  
Each piece will have it's own chapter. I'll update the tags and review the ratings/warnings as I post new stuff here, and I'll also add notes at the beginning of each chapter since the tags may eventually become worthless.

Most everything here will be Sherlolly in some form or fashion. Most (but not all) will probably be canon compliant/missing scenes since that's mostly what I do. I won't be updating with any regularity. It's just a place to throw stuff as I run across it (because organization was never my strong suit and I have stuff squirreled away all over the place). Most of it won't be anywhere near worthy of publication and a fair amount may be semi-abandoned WIPs (but you never know -- it's always possible that reading back through this stuff as I post it will inspire me to... nope. probably not. I'm not getting my hopes up). You were warned. Proceed at your own risk.

**TABLE OF CONTENTS:**

**Chapter 2: What Do You Need?**

  * **Summary:** He doesn’t deserve her. Doesn’t even want her sometimes.  
  

  * *A Sherlock stream of consciousnesses thing that I think I wrote during a bout of insomnia. Also a failed attempt at a 221b ficlet.  
  

  * **Notes:  
**Relationship: Sherlock/Molly  
Rating: Teen+  
Season4, Episode3: The Final Problem  
Sherlock POV  
Angst  
Not Beta'd  
  




**Chapter 3: The Heart of the Conspiracy**

  * **Summary:** After his 4 minute exile, Sherlock shows up in Molly’s flat in the middle of the night (again). Sherlock contemplates the ‘Miss Me’ video and Molly makes a deduction.  
  

  * *This is one I finished. Not sure why I never posted it... Probably because I thought I had too many fics already where Sherlock shows up in Molly's bed in the middle of the night. I've since come to realize there can never be too many. :)  
  

  * **Notes:**  
Relationship: Sherlock/Molly  
Rating: Teen+  
Missing Scene  
Season4, Episode1: The Six Thatchers (references TAB)  
Bedsharing (sort of), Mention of Drug Use, Basically just fluff though  
  




**Chapter 4: You Say It First**

  * **Summary:** Even after the explanations, the apologies, the gradual rebuilding of trust, they still weren’t sure how to slot the pieces together.  
  

  * *I originally posted this on Tumblr, but never got it posted over here. Probably because it goes to exactly to the cheesy clichéd place you'd expect.  
  

  * **Notes:**  
Relationship: Sherlock/Molly  
Rating: Teen+ (contains a couple of mentions of sex, but no actual action)  
Post Season4, Episode3: The Final Problem  
Mostly Fluff  
Originally posted on Tumblr  
Not Beta'd  
  




**Chapter 5: I did a bad thing**

  * **Summary:  
**“Find something amusing to share on Twitter?”  
“Instagram, actually. Just a silly bit of fun.”  
  

  * *A rather long while back, I ran across an old video Louise Brealey posted to her Instagram, and this silliness happened. Never got around to posting it because, well, it’s just ridiculous. But maybe ridiculous is what we all need for Christmas in a pandemic?  
  

  * **Notes:**  
Relationship: Sherlock/Molly  
Rating: Teen+  
Could take place any time after the beginning of season 3, but more likely during season 4, maybe  
Not Beta'd  
Attempt at Humor, but pretty much crack  
Sherlolly, but could be read as generic  
Sort of smutty, at least for the pig,  
Mycroft is unamused.  
There is actually a case fic buried in this mess.  
  




**Chapter 6: You Think I Like a Drink?**

  * **Summary:** More messages came in rapid fire while he contemplated how to explain that she had the wrong person - _Never mind the greater irony of that statement_ \- to a drunk Molly, via text. There were at least a dozen ways that could go spectacularly wrong.  
  

  * *A little back story for the scene in the lab when Sherlock asks for Molly’s help with the drinking part of the stag night. Never published, because I’ve never been completely happy with it. If you’ve got suggestions for helping me make it better, feel free to leave a comment.  
  

  * **Notes:**  
Relationship: Sherlock/Molly  
Rating: Teen+  
Season3, Episode2: The Sign of Three  
Not Beta'd  
Canon-Compliant  
Missing Scene  
Sherlolly  
Attempt at Humor  
Fluff  
Friendship with a little Flirting and a little Angst  
There’s obviously some drinking involved  
Also, Meena.  
  





	2. What Do You Need?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t deserve her. Doesn’t even want her sometimes.
> 
> **A Sherlock stream of consciousnesses thing that I think I wrote during a bout of insomnia. Also a failed attempt at a 221b ficlet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relationship: Sherlock/Molly  
> Rating: Teen+  
> Season4, Episode3: The Final Problem  
> Sherlock POV  
> Angst  
> Not Beta'd

He needs her. God, he doesn’t want to. He’s tried so hard not to.

He’s tried to let her go. Move on, as she has. Some inexplicable force keeps drawing him back.

So, he tries to drive her away by showing her the man inside. Not the genius detective. The terrified defective child cowering behind the deductions and drama and chemicals. Hoping she’ll leave of her own accord. Only she hasn’t.

Why hasn’t she? She certainly doesn’t need him.

She has her life together. Even now, after her engagement disintegrated , she still has her career and her friends, even a family, of sorts.

He doesn’t deserve her. Doesn’t even want her sometimes. Other times he craves her touch so badly it claws at him. A true addict. He _needs_ her. A flaw, a chemical defect that makes him reckless and leaves her stressed and miserable. 

And yet, here she is meeting him for cake. Later she’ll be the one to brush the damp curls from his forehead and wrap a blanket around his trembling form when the real withdrawals set in. She helps him recover. And he realizes he needs her more than ever.

Suddenly, his sister’s vicious game makes losing her forever all too likely. Mere minutes and three impossible words away. All she’s ever asked of him, those words.

_Say it like you mean it._

Just three little words. Just one word, actually. The only thing he’s ever managed to hide from her.

He dredges it from the dark murky place he buried it. Repeats the truth of it. Prays to every ludicrous deity he doesn’t believe in for more time. Pleads with her. _Please. Please._

Miraculously, she whispers it back.

_I love you._


	3. The Heart of the Conspiracy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his 4 minute exile, Sherlock shows up in Molly’s flat in the middle of the night (again). Sherlock contemplates the ‘Miss Me’ video and Molly makes a deduction.
> 
> *This is one I finished. Not sure why I never posted it... Probably because I thought I had too many fics already where Sherlock shows up in Molly's bed in the middle of the night. I've since come to realize there can never be too many. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relationship: Sherlock/Molly  
> Rating: Teen+  
> Missing Scene  
> Season4, Episode1: The Six Thatchers (references TAB)  
> Bedsharing (sort of), Mention of Drug Use, Basically just fluff though

No texts. No phone calls. No lurking in the lab or sulking about her flat. In fact, she’d heard not a word from Sherlock since a few days before Christmas, when he’d unexpectedly turned up with a gift – a cute little taxidermy mouse riding a skateboard – and she’d realized he was planning something. Possibly something dangerous and probably something stupid. Not a word until after the new year, when Jim Moriarty had appeared on every computer screen and television at Barts. (And all of London, she’d learned later.)

It wasn’t until half two in the morning when she’d finally managed to calm her nerves enough to fall asleep. At least he didn’t knock and make her get up to let him in.

Molly came awake to the sound of his voice and a blurry outline of his profile in the dark, sitting on the opposite side of her bed, elbows propped on his knees.

“Was it you?”

“What?” she blinked up at him, trying to make sense of both his presence and the question.

He waved a hand around in the dark as he continued, “Jim… The video… ‘Did you miss me?’ Was it you?”

She simply blinked at him for several long moments, unsure whether to feel flattered or insulted that he would consider her capable of such a thing.

“Why in the world would you think that?”

“Didn’t say I did.”

“Sherlock…” She hoped her tone conveyed that she had little patience for half-truths, especially in the middle of the night.

“Earlier, right after the video aired, I ran a mental simulation. A very old case, but similar. Someone wants to keep me in London. The timing makes that obvious – a broadcast airing just as I was set to fly off to… erm… to… doesn’t matter. I just thought, no… never mind what I thought. No, of course it wasn’t you.” As sometimes happened with Sherlock when his brain moved too quickly, it all came spilling out in one agitated rush.

She turned to face him, scrunching her nose and squinting in the dark, studying his features.

“Are you high?”

“What? No. Not anymore. Maybe a little.”

She let out a hugely disappointed sigh. “Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and counted to ten in her head. Tomorrow, he’d get a piece of her mind. Tonight, she wanted answers. She sat up beside him, fluffed her pillow behind her and leaned against the headboard, but deliberately didn’t flip on the light. This conversation might be easier in the dark.

“So, you don’t know who’s behind the video?”

“I almost had it earlier, before I was interrupted. But, trust me, I will figure it out. I just need more data. What’s certain at this point is that the intent was to keep me here. Looks like it worked, by the way.”

“You were leaving? …again?” Panic squeezed her lungs. She hoped he couldn’t hear it in her voice.

“Yes. But not now.”

She pushed aside the disconcerting fact that yet again, he’d planned to disappear to God-only-knew-where and hadn’t bothered mentioning it to her. Just another piece of something to be dealt with later.

“Could it be Mycroft?” She asked instead, grabbing at a loose thread from earlier in the conversation.

“That’s the obvious answer, but no. Public spectacle – not his style. Besides, my brother would have left me to twist much longer before stepping in.”

She caught the sneer in his tone and steered the conversation another direction.

“Okay. So you said you had a… what did you call it?”

“A mental simulation.”

“Is that a convenient way of saying drug-fueled hallucination?”

He glanced at her, guilt waring with indignation around the edges of his features. “Possibly.”

She exhaled heavily, trying to stay focused. “Alright, ignoring for the moment how colossally idiotic that is, you said something about a similar case. What case? Tell me about it.”

He leaned back against the headboard. In her periphery she could make out the outline of his long fingers, steeped against his chin.

“Over a hundred years ago, Emilia Ricoletti staged a very public death. She shot herself in the head in front of loads of witnesses, then her ‘ghost’ (she could practically hear his dramatic eye roll at the word) turned up later to seek vengeance on men who had wronged her. But, as I told John while we were investigating, there aren’t any such things as ghosts.”

“How’d she do it, then?”

“Well, that was the fun part. Two guns. One loaded, one not. She aimed one at her head, the other at the ground, then fired them both and collapsed. A hidden accomplice spayed some blood, and there you have it. That, and a fake body, just like you provided for me.” She could hear the smirk in his voice before he went on, “Unlike me, to really sell it, Emilia Ricoletti did actually die, just not exactly when everyone thought and not before ‘haunting’ and killing her own husband. Afterwards, when the ghost appeared, it only looked like her. It was actually, well… someone else....” He trailed off abruptly.

“Wait, you mentioned John. He was in your hallucination?”

“Yes, John, Mary, Lestrade… everyone basically. It was necessary to make it as immersive as possible by including real people. But that’s not important. What’s important is that Emilia Ricoletti, blew her own brains out in front of witnesses and then came back, just like Moriarty. I figured out how she did it and why, I just didn’t quite get-

“The who…“ Molly cut in, lost in her own train of reasoning. “Hmmm… her ghost, or rather, someone pretending to be a ghost, was seeking vengeance for having been wronged? So, whoever is pretending to be Jim could be doing it just to get back at you?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, who have you wronged? Or rather, who have you pissed off?”

Even in the dark, she saw the ‘Who haven’t I?’ response as he lifted his shoulders in a characteristically over-dramatic shrug. A second later though, his response morphed into wide-eyed revelation. Sherlock reached for his phone on the bedside table and sent a short text.

“I should probably apologize.”

“For what?”

As if in answer to her question, his phone moaned a distinctively sensual noise that Molly recognized immediately, despite not having heard it since _that_ Christmas four years ago. Sherlock somehow managed to give her a look that was both smug and contrite at the same time. She couldn’t help feeling annoyed, and silently turned away as he read the message.

He put the phone down with a sigh, the silence hanging heavily between them. Molly let it drag on for a moment, but quickly gave it up. No one could best Sherlock at sulking anyway.

“It wasn’t her?” she asked quietly.

“No.”

“Sherlock?” she shifted to face him as a question finally coalesced in her head.

“Hmm?”

She could see he was back in his ‘thinking’ pose.

“In your dream-“

“Mental simulation.” he interrupted.

She nearly succeeded in not rolling her eyes. “Yes, alright. You said you included your friends to make it more real. You also said someone else pretended to be the woman who killed herself…”

“Yes?”

“Well, who was it? In your… erm… simulation, who pretended to be the vengeful ghost?”

“Several people. Not important.”

“But maybe it is….” she went on, slowly thinking out loud, “You played this scenario out in your head, then came here and asked if I was behind the broadcast.”

She heard him swallow in the dark, but he didn’t respond.

“It was me, wasn’t it? I dressed up as the ghost in your dream and what? Scared the shite out of men who’d wronged me?” She couldn’t stop the smirk that thought brought to her face.

“Well?” she prompted when he didn’t answer.

“Not just you, but yes. You… organized the whole campaign.”

“So, in your head, I was a feminist mastermind, was I?” She suppressed a giggle.

He gave her that distinctively ‘Sherlock’ look that furled his brows and crinkled the top of his nose.

“Oh, Molly Hooper, you were much more than that.”

“Was I? …good.” She didn’t even try to suppress her smile at the side-eyed look he gave her in the dark.

Molly laid back down and closed her eyes, the smile lingering on her lips as she drifted back to sleep. They could deal with the drug use and the Moriarty imposter video and all the rest of it in the morning. For the moment, it was enough just to know that Sherlock was right next to her, safe and mostly sound.

…and, that sometimes she haunted his dreams, or hallucinations, or whatever silly thing he chose to call them.


	4. You Say It First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Even after the explanations, the apologies, the gradual rebuilding of trust, they still weren’t sure how to slot the pieces together." 
> 
> *I originally posted this on Tumblr, but never got it posted over here. Probably because it goes to exactly to the cheesy   
> clichéd place you'd expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relationship: Sherlock/Molly  
> Rating: Teen+ (contains a couple of mentions of sex, but no actual action)  
> Post Season4, Episode3: The Final Problem  
> Mostly Fluff  
> Originally posted on Tumblr  
> Not Beta'd

They might never be more than friends. Even after the explanations, the apologies, the gradual rebuilding of trust, they still weren’t sure how to slot the pieces together. There was no bitterness or resentment, it simply was what it was. After all, what did they have in common other than working with murder victims? He was a posh smack head, a brilliant show-off. She was quiet, awkward and as overly cheerful as she was morbid. Before that fateful phone call, no one in their right mind would have pegged them as a couple anyway. Proof being that the only person who ever had was criminally insane. 

It took months before either of them felt comfortable spending time with the other after the disaster his sister had unleashed upon them. Mostly, they saw each other out of necessity – Sherlock visited the morgue or the lab as was necessary for his work, and they saw each other during special occasions when visiting Rosie, neither of them willing to neglect their goddaughter simply out of social discomfort around the other.

Eventually, the uneasiness faded, although neither of them could pinpoint exactly when it happened. Over time, Molly found herself smiling to see him stride through the doors into her workplace, and Sherlock found himself laughing once again at her terrible puns and morbid jokes. Though they wouldn’t admit it, each of them began to look for excuses to see the other, and truth be told, some of those reasons were ridiculously flimsy. But somehow neither of them could work up the courage to simply talk to the other about what they really wanted.

It was John Watson, bless the man, who finally lost patience and demanded they sort themselves out. He invited them for a pint to discuss making them Rosie’s legal guardians should the unspeakable happen. Once they were both ushered into a booth at the back of John’s favorite pub, he simply said he’d seen enough of the delicate dance they were doing. He was appointing them jointly as Rosie’s custodians, and damned if that wouldn’t work out better if they just stopped sidestepping the fact they were in love with each other. Knowledge which was obvious even to him by that point. Ordering them to “get on with it” John made a swift exit, warning them as he went that he’d be waiting outside with his pistol if either of them attempted to leave alone.

“What do we do now?” Sherlock asked, utterly flummoxed, not by the idea, but by the particulars of how to proceed.

Molly shrugged apologetically. She might have known the answer if he was any other man. But with him, she couldn’t picture the usual progression of a relationship; going out together, receiving flowers, meeting each other’s families... They were beyond most of it making any sense, and besides, John, Rosie and Mrs. Hudson counted as both their families already. All the family that mattered anyway.

Could she see herself introducing Sherlock as her boyfriend? Hardly. Husband? That wasn’t even worth contemplating. He wouldn’t want that and oddly, she wasn’t sure she did anymore either. What she wanted was for him to burst through the doors of the morgue and flash her a smile (like he used to when he thought she wasn’t looking) while they examined bodies for clues to a case. She wanted the evenings when he turned up in her kitchen, helped himself to biscuits and settled next to her on the sofa to talk about his experiments or complain about his brother, and the mornings when she woke to the smell of him on her sheets. It didn’t even matter, she realized now, whether they had sex. She’d love to, of course, but she was willing to forgo that if it wasn’t what he wanted. If he was part of her life, she was content to receive what he was capable of giving.

Sherlock never believed he was capable of being what Molly wanted, much less the man she deserved. Could he stand in front of a vicar and slide a ring onto her finger? She meant so much more to him that a token and a promise. He’d made a vow once. And failed spectacularly at keeping it. He’d sworn he would never make another. Nevertheless, if marriage was what Molly wanted, he supposed he’d be willing to give it a go. The thought of spending quiet domestic evenings with her filled him with an unexpected sense of warmth and comfort – something he’d never once felt for any other woman, even The Woman, _especially The Woman_.

He found himself contemplating what it would be like to taste Molly’s skin and share her breath as he lost himself inside her. He’d always ignored his baser instincts (at least when he was sober), but now he couldn’t imagine anything more enticing than exploring the mysteries of Molly Hooper with his fingers, his lips, his entire body.

But he was getting ahead of himself. He should probably ask her out on a proper date first.

“Sherlock?”

The sound of her voice brought him out of his thoughts.

“Would you like to…” she hesitated.

Somewhere in his brain, John’s voice jolted him, ‘It’s now or never.’

“…solve crimes?” she asked.

“…have dinner?” he blurted at the same time.

It was a start.


	5. I did a bad thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Find something amusing to share on Twitter?”
> 
> “Instagram, actually. Just a silly bit of fun.” 
> 
> A rather long while back, I ran across an old video Louise Brealey posted to her Instagram, and this silliness happened. Never got around to posting it because, well, it’s just ridiculous. But maybe ridiculous is what we all need for Christmas in a pandemic?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relationship: Sherlock/Molly  
> Rating: Teen+  
> Could take place any time after the beginning of season 3, but more likely during season 4, maybe  
> Not Beta'd  
> Attempt at Humor, but pretty much crack  
> Sherlolly, but could be read as generic  
> Sort of smutty, at least for the pig,  
> Mycroft is unamused.  
> There is actually a case fic buried in this mess.

“Tell me again why we’re in Hamleys when we’re meant to be speaking to a group of government big wigs about how Ambassador Cho was murdered?”

Molly hurried along a few paces behind Sherlock as he wound through the aisles of toys.

He came to a stop in front of a display of flying drones, “A visual demonstration will be much more effective, and-”

“-dramatic.” Molly finished for him with a smirk.

Sherlock gave her one of his characteristic half smiles, then turned to study the shelf of drones.

Molly wandered a few feet away, her attention drawn to a garden themed display containing several motorized toy bunnies. The cute battery-driven creatures hopped around twitching their tiny noses and ears. In an area adjacent to where the bunnies frolicked, a single motorized pig stood forlornly wiggling his curly little tail.

“Poor lonely piggy needs a friend.” Molly murmured. She lifted one of the bunnies out of its enclosure and set it down in the one with the pig.

The moment it left her hand, the bunny gave a motorized hop, landing directly behind the pig, and began to twitch its cute little nose against the pig’s bum. The pig began doing an excited tail twitch of its own.

Molly let out a startled snort at the indelicate scene she inadvertently created, then quickly pulled out her phone and filmed a short video.

Several moments later, having chosen a drone he felt would provide the most accurate reenactment of the ambassador’s assassination, Sherlock called across the aisle to her. She typed the final hashtag on an Instagram post, pocketed her phone and joined him.

“Find something amusing to share on Twitter?” He asked as they made their way to the queue to pay for his purchase.

“Instagram, actually. Just a silly bit of fun.” Molly knew that would deter further questions. While Sherlock justified his Twitter addiction by pretending he used it to solve cases, he never deigned to glance at Instagram, Facebook or Snapchat, which he regularly referred to as “vapid nonsense for people incapable of stringing a sentence together.”

As expected, he merely hummed a distracted “hhhnng” in response.

* * *

An hour later, Molly addressed the handful of people gathered in a Security Services conference room, explaining the tests used to identify sarin poisoning. She went on to point out that although he was found alone in a locked room, the post-mortem turned up clear signs the ambassador had been murdered while in London on holiday.

As she confidently detailed the case, Sherlock found himself impressed with the professional poise Molly demonstrated. She wasn’t at all a stammering morgue mouse as she’d once described herself.

His eyes roamed the room and its occupants, deducing who ate what for breakfast, who had dropped their phone into the loo last night, and who among them would need extra convincing that the ambassador had definitively not committed suicide. His gaze landed on his brother. Mycroft seemed as enamored with Molly Hooper’s presentation abilities as he was.

Mycroft’s phone picked that moment to buzz. Sherlock watched as his brother fished it from his pocket and stared at the screen, cringing in slight horror. Mycroft quickly typed something and repocketed the device, before scowling first at Molly, then at the room in general and Sherlock in particular.

Just then, his own phone buzzed a text alert . At the same instant, Molly finished her speech by way of introducing him, “And now Sherlock Holmes will demonstrate how the poison was administered.”

Ignoring his phone, Sherlock pulled the drone controller from his coat pocket and stepped to the front of the room.

* * *

“That went swimmingly, I think. Don’t you?” Molly asked as they exited the Security Services Building.

“Yes.” Sherlock agreed.

“Don’t know why your brother seemed so displeased though.”

“That’s his normal state of being.” He waved a hand in dismissal of the subject.

But she was right. Mycroft’s demeanor throughout the second half of the presentation was a lingering mystery. It seemed to indicate they’d been amiss somewhere in their analysis of the case. Yet Mycroft hadn’t made a point of saying anything disparaging as they wrapped up the demonstration and left the others to debate the foreign policy ramifications of the assassination. Sherlock’s brows knit together in frustration at not being able to deduce what had upset his brother.

Then he remembered his phone pinging just prior to his drone demonstration. Pulling it from his jacket, he found the unread message.

_MUST YOU MAKE MISS HOOPER COMPLICIT IN YOUR TASTELESS JUVENILE ANTICS? DO YOU CARE NOTHING FOR HER PROFESSIONAL REPUTATION, LITTLE BROTHER?_

The message only served to heighten the mystery. It was sent prior to his part of the demonstration, so it couldn’t be about the drone, which had worked brilliantly in any case. And every detail of Molly’s talk had been impeccable. What in the world was his brother going on about?

Molly turned back to join him where he’d come to a stop on the pavement frowning at his phone.

“What is it?” She asked, voice tinged with concern, “new case?”

“No.” He resumed their course, still trying to suss out what could possibly have put such a bee under Mycroft’s bonnet.

“What, then?” Molly asked again, in response to Sherlock’s continued consternation.

“My brother seems to think I put you up to something distasteful and other than spending your morning in the same room with his ilk, I have no idea what it was.”

Sherlock held out his phone so she could read his brother’s message for herself.

Molly’s brow crinkled in confusion. But a moment later, her eyes went wide with realization and a blush crept up her face. She let out a nervous laugh.

“Well, erm, might it have been my Instagram post earlier? Not that your brother has any say about what I put on my own social media accounts.” Molly gave defiant a half-shrug. “It never occurred to me that he might follow my Instagram, seeing as how _you_ think it’s a platform for morons…”

“I never said that.”

She gave him a pointed look.

“Well… not exactly.” he corrected. “Besides, keeping track of morons is basically his job description. He watches everything.”

Molly looked momentarily affronted and Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed at her in a silent “You know what I meant”.

“In any case, it was only a little joke, a bit of harmless fun.”

“There’s that sorted. Mycroft hates harmless fun.”

They walked a few moments in silence before Sherlock turned to her, “This ‘little joke’ of yours, what was it?”

Molly opened the Instagram app and handed her phone over so he could see.

“I did a bad thing in Hamleys.” She explained with mock seriousness.

Playing on a loop was a video of the mechanical animals, the rabbit nuzzling around the pig’s bottom and the pig seeming to enjoy the attention by wiggling its tail in a rather obscene manner, accompanied by the hashtags:

in #Hamleys  
with #SherlockHolmes  
#HavingAPorkgasm 🤣

Sherlock mashed his lips together in a valiant effort, but ultimately couldn’t stop himself from laughing outright at the absurdity of the whole thing.

He tapped the app’s edit button and added a couple of tags of his own to the video:

#DontBeAlarmed  
#Mycroft  
#ItsToDoWithSex

Satisfied with his additions, he handed her phone back, and held out an arm to Molly.

“Lunch?” He asked, “I’m suddenly craving a bacon bunty.”

###

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **01/06/2021 edit to include this epilogue (head canon) by the lovely and brillant Oh Aine in the comments because this absolutely happened:  
>  Molly didn’t realise that Mycroft followed her and that’s because Anthea has set up the accounts he uses to monitor people under a series of ever increasingly silly names. And poor old Myc hasn’t figured out how to edit his user name. Thus when Molly gained a follower called The Notorious BiG she had no idea that was the British Government himself. Molly now gets the joke. Mycroft does not. And Sherlock always did. **
> 
> Here’s a link to Louise Brealey’s Instagram post…  
> [https://www.instagram.com/mslouisebrealey/p/Bkvcb5enwsu/?utm_source=ig_share_sheet&igshid=1q6zz6yb9ijl8](https://www.instagram.com/mslouisebrealey/p/Bkvcb5enwsu/?utm_source=ig_share_sheet&igshid=1q6zz6yb9ijl8)
> 
> Thank you to Loo, for her brilliant sense of humor and for inspiring this silly fic.


	6. You Think I Like a Drink?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More messages came in rapid fire while he contemplated how to explain that she had the wrong person - _Never mind the greater irony of that statement_ \- to a drunk Molly, via text. There were at least a dozen ways that could go spectacularly wrong.
> 
> *A little back story for the scene in the lab when Sherlock asks for Molly’s help with the drinking part of the stag night. Never published, because I’ve never been completely happy with it. If you’ve got suggestions for helping me make it better, feel free to leave a comment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relationship: Sherlock/Molly  
> Rating: Teen+  
> Season3, Episode2: The Sign of Three  
> Not Beta'd  
> Canon-Compliant  
> Missing Scene  
> Sherlolly  
> Attempt at Humor  
> Fluff  
> Friendship with a little Flirting and a little Angst  
> There’s obviously drinking involved  
> Also, Meena.

_Bored. Bored, bored…. Bored!  
_

Sherlock flopped down in his chair, faced with another evening alone at Baker Street with nothing on, like so many since his return. Wedding planning could only go so far, especially of a Saturday night. 

He contemplated making up an excuse to call John, but no doubt John and Mary were entranced by something insipid on the telly and wouldn't appreciate the distraction. Never mind that Sherlock needed one, badly. But thankfully not quite bad enough to challenge Mrs. Hudson to Cluedo. _Yet..._

He leaned back in his chair, trying to relax. _Bored._ He desperately wanted a cigarette, or something stronger. He shook his head. _Don’t go down that road. Find a distraction. An experiment maybe? An impromptu trip to Barts? No, not that._ _Where did he put that matchbox?_

His phone buzzed a text alert.

"Thank God, Lestrade you're a life saver!" _Had he said that aloud? Dear Lord, when had he become so pathetic?_

He dug his phone out of his pocket. It wasn’t Lestrade.

COME GET ME. -MXX

His brow furled, and adrenaline shot through his body as he read the message. _Why would Molly Hooper be texting him to retrieve her? Was she in some sort of trouble?_ He was out of his chair, typing a reply, sliding on his shoes and shucking his dressing gown before he even realized he was doing so.

WHERE ARE YOU? -SH

WITH MENA, SILLLY BEEN. YOU SAID 2 TXT YOUR MEMBER? -MXX

YOU REMINDER?

YOU REMEMBER.

He stopped in his tracks, one arm into the sleeve of his jacket as realization hit. She was texting him by mistake. And she’d had too much to drink.

ARE YOU DRUNK? -SH

He didn’t need a confirmation, really. _Obviously drinking, if not full-on pissed._

NO! ...MAY BRITTLE. -MXX

What was the appropriate course of action? His mind whirled.

He didn’t have the finance’s phone number. He could certainly ascertain it, but that might leave Molly in a potentially vulnerable state for too long. _Not acceptable._

MAY B A LITTLE -MXX

More messages came in rapid fire while he contemplated how to explain that she had the wrong person - _Never mind the greater irony of that statement_ \- to a drunk Molly, via text. There were at least a dozen ways that could go spectacularly wrong.

OK YEAH BIT PISSED. BUT FUN -MXX

JUST COME.

That sealed it. He slid the rest of the way into his jacket. There was no help for it. He'd have to go see Molly safely home. The fiancé could thank him later.

He thumbed open an app on his phone and a map location popped up a moment later saving him from needing to deduce her location. He threw on his coat and bounded down the stairs.

A short while later, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as the taxi pulled to a stop outside the location his phone had supplied. The two women were sitting on a bench just outside a pub, Molly resting her head against her friend's shoulder.

"What took you?" Meena asked, only slurring slightly, as he strode across the pavement toward them. Her eyes fixed on his feet but travelled slowly up his frame as he came to a stop in front of them. Her eyes went wide when her gaze finally landed on his face.

"Hey! You're not-"

"Obviously." He cut her off, focus fixed on Molly, who hadn't moved. Slack-faced, she seemed to be drooling onto the shoulder of her friend's coat. Passed out. _Possibly that was for the better._

"Come on then." He lifted Molly as gently as possible and gestured to Meena to follow as he turned to carry Molly's sleeping form back to the cab.

Meena hesitated. "Hold up, there. I don't..." She gestured vaguely with her hand, searching for words. "How do I know? Um... you know?"

He gave her an annoyed glance that seemed to help coagulate her thoughts. "Trust you!" she blurted.

Molly was heavier than she looked. Solid and warm, but dead weight in his arms.

"Molly trusts me." he said levelly. _Was that true?_ He didn’t know. He certainly trusted Molly, but had he ever done anything to earn her trust in return? _Likely just the opposite._

"Does she?"

He flashed her his best ‘innocent yet convincing’ smile. The one that hardly ever worked on John and never worked on Molly. It did work on her inebriated friend, apparently. Meena raised herself off the bench with exaggerated grace, followed him back to the taxi and climbed inside.

They dropped Meena off first as her flat was closest. _And thank God for that._ She chattered pointlessly at him the entire drive and seemed inclined to keep doing so even after the they'd pulled to the kerb in front of her door.

"...be killing me not to live together full time by now. But the animals. Like babies, really, aren’t they? No clue what she's going to do with Toby if he can't get along with Tom’s mangy old hound. Of course, Molly loves the doggo too, of course she does, but it’s not fair. Really, she’s so lucky you know? Since you’re... um, well..." She gestured vaguely at him. "She's lucky to have you to help with the wedding planning, that’s what I say. And Tom’s family is-"

"Yes, Yes. Get out. Off you go."

Last threads of patience worn thin, Sherlock finally flung the cab door open and practically shoved the woman from the vehicle.

Meena fumbled her key into the lock and was safely inside her flat as the taxi pulled away. Molly was still unconscious, curled up against Sherlock’s side and softly snoring. He resisted the urge to drape his arm protectively around her. Instead, he dug her phone out of her bag.

HAD BIT MUCH. GOING TO MINE. -MXX

Pressing send, he pulled up the fiancé’s contact info. _Probably ought to make a note of that_. Instead, he added a second message just for good measure.

C YOU TMORRW -MXX

Satisfied that would keep the other man from… _what? Worrying? Turning up?_ He silenced her phone before dropping it back into her bag and dug out the key to her flat.

She stirred just as the taxi pulled up to her building.

"Where?" she asked, swiveling her head slowly Sherlock's direction and blinking up at him in an utterly adorable way he couldn’t help smiling at.

"Home."

At the sound of his voice, her brow furled.

"Wh-" she started, then the confusion on her face gave way to wide-eyed panic. She clapped a hand over her mouth and barreled past him as he reached to swing the cab door open. A second later, he heard her quietly deposit her dinner behind a hedgerow.

"Well, lucky you the little lady made it out in time” the driver remarked, displeased, “Woulda been double for the mess."

Sherlock tossed some bills at him.

"Good luck, mate." he called over his shoulder as he drove off.

Thankfully, Molly managed the stairs up to her door well enough. He unlocked it and ushered her inside.

She made immediately for the kitchen, leaving him standing awkwardly in the hallway. The polite thing would be to drop her key in the dish and silently let himself out. But for long moments he couldn’t seem to make himself move. _Sentiment. Ridiculous._

Just as he was finally turning to go, a sharp cry and a clatter sounded from deeper within the flat.

He found her standing in the kitchen. She’d gone pale, one hand in a white knuckled grip on the worktop. With the other, she clutched a mug to her chest. The tea kettle lay on its side on the floor, a small puddle of water forming around it.

“Want tea, but room…” she squeezed her eyes shut, “Ungh. Spinning.”

He picked up the kettle and set it on the worktop, then gently pulled the mug from her hand. If his wrist brushed her breast, it wasn’t intentional, he told himself. _Enjoyable, but not intentional._

“Alright. You should probably sit down.” He took her shoulders and she let him guide her around the breakfast bar and into the lounge. 

“God, s’not helping.” She mumbled and sank onto the sofa with a small moan.

“Put your head between your knees. I’ll make the tea.”

Molly murmured something into her lap about “kissing arse”. Sherlock returned to the kitchen, wondering not for the first time about what a terrible idea it was for him to be here. He filled and plugged in the kettle, pulled tea bags from the cupboard, then returned to the lounge two minutes later with two steaming mugs.

Molly still had her head hung between her knees.

He deposited the mugs on the coffee table and kneeled in front of her. She raised her head slightly before swallowing hard and doubling over again.

“Why two of you?” She tilted her head up to stare at him with slightly unfocused eyes. “be-because one’s not… erm, wait. Where’s erm…”

“Ah, well… he’s not here. I am.” He’d explain when she was sober.

“‘s okay Shrr-lock.” She slurred, dropping her head so her words were muffled by the fabric of her skirt.

 _Why did hearing her pronounce his name like that make him feel so warm inside?_ He nudged the tea mug her direction and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Here’s your tea. Drink some so I can take you to bed.” _Dear Lord, she was rubbing off on him with the awkward innuendo._ She giggled. It was a good thing she likely wouldn’t remember any of this.

“…to sleep this off.” He added quickly. Then picked up the mug and guided it to her lips as she raised her head again.

Her heavy-lidded eyes met his briefly over the top of the tea mug. _Why was it suddenly so difficult to pull his own eyes away from her gaze._ He swallowed hard, setting the cup on the table and stood.

He needed to leave right now, before he did anything stupid. _Correction. Anything more stupid than he already had done._

“You’re home now, you’ll be fine there.” He waved a hand at the sofa as he stepped towards the door. Molly was home safely. He’d fulfilled what he set out to do. If she spent the night passed out in her lounge… _well, there were worse things._

He was almost to the door when she called out.

“Wait! Sherlock… erm. Please?”

 _For God’s sake, why hadn’t he hadn’t moved faster? Or simply pretended not to hear her call? Or just left?_ Yet, he hadn't done any of that. Sherlock returned to the lounge, stopping just inside the doorway to find her staring up at him, lower lip caught between her teeth.

“Yes?”

“Stay.”

For some reason he couldn’t fathom, his legs carried him back into the lounge proper. He tentatively sat at the opposite edge of the sofa.

Molly straightened up slightly and turned to face his direction.

“Don’t worry,“ She swallowed and shook her head, searching for words, “I’m… I’m not going to throw myself at you just because I’m engorged.”

She shook her head, confused. “Wait! No. I’m… I’m… engraved?” She stammered.

“Engaged.” He supplied.

She nodded a bit too enthusiastically.

“Right. That. Engaged.” She rolled the word around, as if using it for the first time. 

“To erm… B’sides, I know how you feel about it. You know…. about, erm, sex.” She sort of whispered the last bit as if imparting some kind of closely held secret knowledge.

“How I feel about it?” he asked, unable to stop himself. _Christ, well done, that._

“Yeah, you don’t go in for it. S’okay, you know. You do you an’ all.”

Sherlock blinked. _What in the world had given her that impression?_ _Oh. Damn Jim Moriary_.

“I have a king!” she blurted and for a split second, he thought she might have read his mind. _Not possible, surely?_

“Plenty of room in my bed for... erm, I mean, ” Molly waved a hand in the air nervously as she blundered on. “You’ll have space. Erm, for your feet and all. They're rather big.”

_Her bed is a king-size. Of course. Stupid._

“Ok.” He responded, feeling the need to say something, combined with the overwhelming feeling that any response he gave would equate to sticking one of his ‘rather big’ feet in it. Thankfully, Molly seemed content to leave the conversation there. She pillowed her arms on her knees and dropped her face down once more into her lap. Sherlock didn’t move, hoping she’d simply fall asleep and he could make a proper exit before either of them embarrassed themselves further.

Some interminable time later, she gave a small snort and jerked back up, blinking as the haze of her micro-nap subsided. She gave a little nod.

“Come on then.” Molly swayed but managed to get herself up off the sofa. She reached for Sherlock’s hand, ostensibly to pull him up off the sofa as well.

He was reluctant to move, but forced to leap to his feet in order to keep her upright as she tugged at his arm, overbalanced and stumbled sideways. He caught her by the shoulders to steady her. 

They stood face to face, awkwardly staring at one another, Sherlock’s hands wrapped around Molly’s upper arms.

“Bed-time.” She breathed, then seemed to realize how it must’ve sounded. She gave a little giggle that did nothing to ease the uncomfortable warm feeling that bloomed in Sherlock’s chest, right under where her hand seemed to suddenly be resting. _This couldn’t lead anywhere good, could it? Especially not with Molly being inebriated. Still…_

“Thing is,” a blush crept up her face, “being light-headed is all well and good.“

She looked down, flushed red to her hairline, and dropped her hand before continuing, “Last time, I got up in the night to use the loo and…”

 _Oh. Oh…_ He hadn’t meant to deduce her, but sometimes his intentions couldn’t keep up with the speed of his brain. This deduction brought relief, tinged with remorse. He shook the feeling away.

“Ah,” He confirmed, letting his hands fall away from her shoulders. “Light-headed, good. Urinating in wardrobes, erm… bad.”

Molly smiled up at him, the picture of brown-eyed innocence. “Exactly.”

XXX


End file.
